


The Film

by novadiablo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Exhibitionism, Film, M/M, Masturbation, Other, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-02
Updated: 2011-11-02
Packaged: 2017-10-25 15:23:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novadiablo/pseuds/novadiablo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds a folder of films on Sherlock's phone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Just because he happened to be in bed at the time of the discovery, and just because Sherlock wasn't at 221B didn't make it unusual. John could remember the exact text message he had sent for Sherlock, the exact time he had put it in his pocket, only to be found again three minutes ago.

John tapped open the folder and was attacked by an onslaught of caps of himself. He watched each one in order (because he had nothing better to do). 'John eating toast' was John eating toast (strawberry jam, sweet tea, looked to be filmed from the desk from the unusual angle), 'John shaving' was John shaving (however it was interrupted by very heavy breathing halfway through and cut short), 'John watching tele' was, shockingly, John watching the news. Slightly creepy was the three 'John sleeping' ones, one on the couch, the second in his bed and the third in a cab on the way home from God knows where.

Generally, John thought this was completely normal – for Sherlock. He was probably Sherlock's newest research topic.

Well, until he found the last one.

When he opened it, he recognised the interior of Sherlock's room immediately. Then Sherlock came into the screen, looking just a little flushed, and began to speak directly to the camera.

"John, one day I will show this to you."  
John's eyebrows rose.

"Right now you are in the shower. I was walking past and I heard you moan -."

John felt a flush creep up his neck.

Sherlock stopped for a moment as though collecting himself. He tried to start talking again, but his voice broke first go.

"Oh God, John, you really have no idea what you do to me. You…" Sherlock took a deep breath.

"I need to make this video to know that some day you might watch it, even though I'll probably delete it before you use my phone again."

Then Sherlock set the phone against the dresser.

All John could see was Sherlock's bed, and Sherlock, who was lying back onto it. But John couldn't bring himself to turn off the video, or do anything more than swallow loudly as he watched Sherlock unbuttoning his shirt, eyes closed and hands roaming over himself. The quality wasn't quite as rubbish as people made out, and John could clearly see Sherlock's defined stomach, and the stark whiteness against the black silk shirt.

Sherlock's room was small. John could hear clearly the increased breathing, the almost-moans, the tiny whimpers, and Christ, Sherlock hadn't even gotten his pants off yet.

Yet.

John jumped though, when Sherlock moaned a quite 'Oh, John!' while grinding against his own hand. In an undignified flurry, Sherlock no longer had any clothes on and he lay back, obviously trying to control himself.

His cock, not quite hard yet, was resting against his left hip, and his hands were on the side of his head and he was breathing in and out very deliberately.

Then he laughed, breathlessly. "As if I'll ever show this to you." He said bemusedly. "But oh God, what would you do I you did."

Obviously Sherlock thought he would do something very good, because he groaned and his cock twitched – actually, physically twitched.

Something in Sherlock broke after that, and suddenly his hand was around his length and his other hand was between his legs and he only stopped to lubricate with spit, before stroking again and fondling his sac with the other hand.

But John only noticed Sherlock was talking after a few moments. He wasn't loud or particularly coherent, it was just a long string of words that went a little like: "Oh God John, imagine you here, imagine you laying above me, just watching me as I bring myself of to the thought of you, God imagine your body above mine, imagine your arms next to my head - oh God holding my hands above my head – hnnng and your stomach, toned like it is and the your scar – "

At this point Sherlock's hand seemed to tighten at the base of his cock, a move John knew was used to stave off orgasm, when nothing else will work.

Sherlock's voice dropped lower: "That scar, the scar that has evaded me ever since I met you, I've never had a reason to even look at it, other than the fact that I just want to so much, oh I have dreams of glimpsing it, oh John, if you ever watched this, I can just imagine you lying in your bed watching me pulling on myself, I only ever think about you John, oh yes, only you, and the way you would feel inside me, your open lips against my neck as you came and unnnnnng."

Sherlock's tirade stopped then, and all John heard for the next few minutes was the slick noises of hand around appendage and Sherlock's breathy moans and eventually, semi-hysterical whimpers.

It was only a little after that when Sherlock sat bolt upright. He turned and looked straight at the camera, picking it up from the dresser and holding it close to his face.

"Now John," Sherlock huffed, his voice about three octaves too low, "watch carefully, because I might delete this before you see it."

John didn't care that the statement didn't make any sense because Sherlock was on his knees now, having replaced the phone, and stroking himself, closer to the camera than he was before.

And really ten strokes was all he had left in him. Because after that, the grunty-groany drawn out 'John', the white ribbons and the beautiful, perfect, wonderful expression all appeared simulataneously.

There wasn't much more of the video after that. A shot of Sherlock looked sheepish in his own semen reaching out for the phone, with a whispered "you'll never see this," and then black.


	2. Chapter 2

John blinked a lot in the following three minutes.

At first he convinced himself it was to adjust to the changing light, but after a while he had to admit it was simply because he had no idea what to do next.  
And of course, when John finally noticed the almost painful erection in his dirty, messy, just-chased-a-criminal-through-back-alleys pants and was about to do something about it was when Sherlock decided to burst in to the room.  
So here John was, with Sherlock’s phone in one hand, half of his cock in the other through the zip and his shirt half rucked up, and busted. Big time.

Sherlock, obviously, had been planning on making an announcement about the degradation of toenails in whale sperm or something like that, but he instantly froze, his eyes focussed on the pink device in John’s hand.

Then he did something John had never seen him do before.  
He swore.  
A lot.

“Fuck. FUCK. Fuck shitting fuck tits cock wanker fuck crap ass dick shit shit shit fuck shit fucking SHIT.”

And then he did a little tantrum dance and thumped down the stairs. With John at his heels.  
Sherlock may be light on his feet but John is an army man. Army men don’t just run down stairs, army men tear shit up.  
So when John collided with Sherlock at the bottom of the stairs and they went flying into the wall hard enough to crack a few ribs, Sherlock was more surprised at the fact that John had an erection than the fact that he may actually have fractures.

“Now Sherlock,” John said almost sweetly and Sherlock moaned angrily and tried to buck him off, “you can’t just show me something like that and then not wait to see what I’d do.” He sounded like Mrs Hudson, but he didn’t care.

John pushed him harder against the wall. “Do you want to know what I’d do Sherlock?” he breathed into Sherlock’s ear. Nothing except harsh breathing and panic. “Do you!” Almost yelled this time, another hard push.  
“Yes!” Sherlock’s voice broke and he closed his eyes, because he really couldn’t take this much longer.  
Then the pressure was gone, but Sherlock didn’t open his eyes. Rustling, the return of warmth.  
“Sherlock, open your eyes.” John said, his voice very even.

And he did. And there it was. In all it’s silvery, uneven glory. It wasn’t ugly; in fact, as far as bullet wounds go it was quite attractive. It was just interesting. So, so interesting. And beautiful.

And when Sherlock put his mouth on it and John shivered, that was beautiful too. John yanked his face up into a crushing kiss and the spell was broken, but that was okay because his tongue was in John’s mouth and everything that was happening was the best thing ever really.

Sherlock wrapped his arm around John’s chest and they were flush together and so, so perfect, and there wasn’t even tongue anymore, just eye contact and lips, and breath, little carbon dioxide molecules that had been through John where now in him and wasn’t was quite wonderful?

And now John was just pecking at his lips. Just enough to make Sherlock follow him back.

“How do you even exist?” John mumbled against his lips. And Sherlock shrugged because he didn’t know.

What he did know is that they both had erections and that it was scientifically proven that it felt nice to rub such appendages together. And of course Sherlock doesn’t do things in halves, or slowly, so soon they were both out and sliding deliciously. And John’s hands brushed his and suddenly, without even realising, he was on his knees and John’s hands were now in his hair and he moaned so loud Mrs Hudson would have a smug smile for days.

Sherlock could feel the saliva dribbling down his chin and John’s eyes watching him, and that was also the best thing ever. Even when Sherlock choked and had to pull away, it felt amazing, having John in his mouth and causing his hands to scrabble against the wall for a hold before he slumped on the ground in front of Sherlock, suitably incoherent. His coherency didn’t improve when Sherlock leaned over him on all fours. Sherlock, flushed red and shaking with anticipation and arousal, sweating and sucking the pre-come off his bottom lip, with his hands either side of hips. But its Sherlock’s eyes that do him in. The irises are almost black, the pupils blown with only a ring of grey-blue-green around them. The lids were half closed, with red rims, yet they still had that Sherlockian spark of intelligence, something John could never fuck out, but damn him if he wasn’t going to try. Sherlock looked like fornication personified and that was why, without any stimulation other than Sherlock’s (garlicky, not that John noticed) breath on his face, John came with a groan.

When John came to, Sherlock was nuzzling behind his ear and thrusting steadily against his thigh.  
“You’ve ruined my plans for this evening,” Sherlock comments deviously. John tried to catch his breath in reply. “Although I could just fuck you, instead.”  
For a man who not long ago was having a meltdown because his flatmate saw him wanking, he seemed far too sure of himself. John, with a muttered ‘got your breath back?’, hauled Sherlock up and half-dragged him up the stairs.


End file.
